


London Calling

by surge



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Black Hermione Granger (nigerian), Coping, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Former Death Eater Draco, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Meet-Cute, Post-War, Reconciliation, Sightseeing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-15 07:18:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14785946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surge/pseuds/surge
Summary: "Draco."His eyes flicker upwards, then to his right.He doesn't really know what to think now. Hermione Granger stands there before him, sporting a nice new cut, and the same expression she always gave him when he didn't insult her first before speaking to her- but the look's different. Softer.Then, that's when he wonders why she said 'Draco', instead of 'Malfoy' or 'Ferret', or his favourite, 'Traitorous Asshat of a Snake'.She's never called him the last. But he expects it- even though he wants think better of her, and himself too.-(Hermione relives her childhood memories. Draco makes new ones with her.She reminds him so much of home.)





	London Calling

**Author's Note:**

> SYNOPSIS:  
> Hermione visits her parents in London, for the first time in a while. It's a nostalgic retreat from a good, but draining job.
> 
> Draco's been living in London for a few years on probation for his crimes- a fitting punishment for someone raised to hate muggles, to be surrounded by them and only them. But he can't help but be fascinated by them.
> 
> A chance encounter draws the two of them together. They effectively become one another's tour guide, to the new and the old of London.
> 
> (Hermione relives her childhood memories. Draco makes new ones with her.
> 
> She reminds him so much of home.)

hermione

It's a lot less heavy to wear her robes, Hermione muses on a chewed lip, but the shudder of the tube shakes the thought away from her mind.

The beige trenchcoat will do, it's snugly wrapped around her figure and it makes her chest feel all the tighter. She hasn't seen her parents for a while, she knows, she's counted down the days every time since the last visit.

But the loll of the world around her, as muggle as it is, brings a beat of warmth within her chest. Another soft smile to her face.

London feels strange in its changing seasons. The tube escapes its way out of the tunnel and to the platforms and Hermione leans closer towards the wide window, leaning past the pole with one hand on it. 

The scatter of a crowd on the platform glazes quickly past Hermione's view, slowing along with the train. It's her stop, there's no mistake, even with the newly lined platform floors and bright yellow stripes. She's looked at the map a thousand times to make sure.

Her parents moved back into the city last year, they had telephoned her the news. From London, to Australia, to the country, then back to the city, back again to where Hermione had grown up- for the lesser part.

The vowels of the memory charm still stick at the roof of her mouth. It has been, for a while, since she got vacation leave from the Ministry. It sticks every time she goes to visit her parents.

Hermione steps out of the train, almost stuck on her feet, until the shoulders brushing her sides beckon her to keep her pace steady and quick. 

The blur of black, blonde, and striking colours of heads and clothes brush past her, London's people drifting by as fast as she always remembered.

The small click of her tiny luggage follows the rhythm of her own steps, up the stairs and up into the city. There's not much to bring, Hermione already had her some of her old things with her parents, and it wasn't a long stay either way. 

She watches the people pass her. Their faces. Along with the sound of the city.

The dewy and white sky of the city streams in, hitting her before she's even close to come on solid, surface ground, in climbing the stairs. 

It's different, and it reminds her how much she misses this home and her other home, the one just a little ways off from Diagon.

It reminds her of the school days before Year 6, skimming rain puddles, and counting double deckers from the car.

It reminds her how much she loves being a muggleborn. London as much as Diagon.

draco

Draco gets off work exactly at 10 past 7, later than he usually does.

The news on the telly fizzes out behind him with his leaving. Draco passes by the shards of windows, the top floor of the firm providing a delicate view of the city horizon.

He watches it pass, the windows spanning the distance to the lift, the streets below following his every step. The sun's setting, and its light streams on the polished path he walks. His briefcase feels light in his grasp.

Accounting. That's what Draco does. 

Muggle math was a lot more easily done than he thought. 

It took Draco more than a few months to get used to the technology, with the thick and clicky calculators and the rare computer he had to use from assignment to assignment. His boss, stout and easily forgettable as he was, still posed as a good teacher, he had to admit to his own surprise.

His co-workers pass him by, half of them he knows by name, the other half known by name and multiple coffee outings during break. All their curt nods and friendly hands brushing his shoulder makes Draco smile.

It's been 3 years since Draco started at this firm, 2 and a half since he started getting good at his job, and 2 since he last felt at least a little lonely working here. 

It's a good job. Higher pay than his last.

The elevator dings empty and almost closes shut before Draco jabs his hand between them to stop and enter. The lift remains lonely in the next few seconds, with only him, his briefcase, and the chirping of faint music.

The doors slide closed. The office is mostly empty.

The street below he walks on to is too, sparse of tourists or whatnot on the streets. The shopping district lies close here, Draco knows that part, but not any more than that. 

It's been 7 years, living in London- or otherwise said as 7 years sentenced. 

It's not a bad punishment. It was meant to confuse Draco at most, he believes.

A fitting punishment, he says instead. He deserves worse, he knows. And he still feels childish thinking about it, and even more, feeling the outline of the thing hidden under his sleeve.

He was stupid and young back then. But that doesn't make up an excuse.

He's still young, with 25 gaining on him, plus- he still hasn't lost the feel of the phantom ache of a wand in his palm.

He thinks about this much, in his walk home, and through the tube.

He thinks too much about his past, so much he thinks he sees a haze of a past acquaintance- but no, he wouldn't say that, pass him at the last station home. But he only thinks that.

The walk home goes by as usual.

hermione

When her mother opens the door, she looks at Hermione with a face flush of relief and happiness.

"You're late, I thought something had happened," She breathes, drawing Hermione up the stairs into a crushing hug. "Glad to see you again, baby."

The neighbourhood carries on, with the quiet bike bells ringing and far away traffic pumping faint beeps into the air above. Hermione closes her eyes and breathes once into her mother's shoulder. Twice, and holds her breath.

Her father comes to the door soon after, a hearty laugh echoing through the door frame, before taking Hermione's face in his hands, and then her, into his arms without a word.

Hermione fights back tears, as she did last time. She flashes a smile instead. "I'm coming in, aren't I?"

draco

He tosses his keys first on the kitchen table, then grabs the remote to click on the telly. He sets his briefcase to lean on the side of the loveseat, the one of the few rare luxuries he was able to afford with the Ministry's approval. 

He remembers the envelope he left on the table that morning. He retraces his steps back to the kitchen.

The sound of the television is static behind his back, but he likes it, the way it becomes white noise. He'd been impressed when he first came to London, the muggles having their technology as their own type of little magic. He still is, of course. Their magic grows and grows more and changes more over the years. 

He strips off his blazer jacket, envelope between teeth, and drapes his blazer over the gaudy singular kitchen chair. He takes the envelope while walking, the month's past Daily Prophets inside, and grasps it to tear open.

The papers scatter themselves on his lap, as he leans back in the loveseat, green velvet swallowing the strain in his back. The irony of his favourite chair fails to reach him still, loveseat it may be with no lover to share it with.

He's had his fair share of visitors still, of course. But they always happen to leave and never come back.

Last week's Prophet is piled on top, creased at the corners and in the middle from the fold, and Draco starts to shuffles the papers to have the oldest at the top.

But a letter slips out. The first in a long while. 

He takes up the thin paper in his hand, a little browned and dirty in the corner and wrinkled in delivery. He flips it over and stops, turning it over again.

He swallows and his eyes flicker away from the letter. The quick image of the address in the corner starts to burns into his mind.

Azkaban. He hates the curves of each letter.

He swipes the letter to his side, throwing it through the air and into the bin. He tries to not wonder if it was his mother or father that sent it. 

Draco calls these nights his 'monthly catching up'. It's this night, that makes his reality seem more real, his memories real no matter how much they hurt. 

They make him remember he's a wizard. That he has magic in his veins. The ways he used it to sin.

But he likes that he's allowed to know he's different- special, better, compared to all the muggles that he passes on the daily. He doesn't know if that thought is a poisonous thought deeply ingrained into his conscious by someone else. 

The Dark Mark on his arm stings with a silent hiss in his mind.

hermione

They spend the night catching up at the dinner table, much to Hermione's own delight. It's a little more real, having a family dinner again, rather than eating out at a fancy restaurant.

Hermione can't wipe the pleasant smile off her face at the aroma of jollof rice and coconut desserts. Home. This is what she's been missing.

So Hermione tells her parents about life at her job, it's tiring but she knows it's been worth it, working her way up. She's been having more meetings with the Minister, she tells them, and her father asks who that is again.

She smiles, as she's done a thousand times already and tells her father about the Shacklebolt, and her father tells her she'd do just as good as Shacklebolt as Minister.

Hermione flushes with pride. She hopes that she could, of course, but the fact that she hasn't felt like this since telling her parents about her N.E.W.T. scores distracts her from it. 

Her father compliments her hair too, which makes Hermione roll her eyes. 

"You look nothing like little 'Mione. A lot more like your Mother than your old self, I have to say," He chuckles, voice just as soft as it was 5 years ago, and all the years before that. 

Hermione clicks her tongue and responds, "Hey, I'm still the same old me." She means it all in love. She runs a hand on her scalp, close-cropped with baby hairs curling around her temples. 

Her mother reaches across the table to brush a kiss from her fingers on Hermione's forehead.

She asks her parents about their life too, then. 

Her mother tells her about their relatives, Hermione's new baby cousin, and how life has been since her father's retirement. They talk about travelling, jokingly mentioning a 'second honeymoon'. 

They're thinking about Thailand for now, they've never been to Asia. Maybe Canada, too, hiking would be another thing they've been dying to try. Banff, they guess, and if they miss the city too much, they'll go south to Toronto. But at the mention of Australia, Hermione freezes.

They say they miss it. 

Hermione puts on a smile and nods, as quick as she remembers to, and her parents don't seem to notice her hands twitching under the table and the crook of the smile on her lips. 

It's been 6 years, she remembers, it's been 6 years. 6 years, they're here now, right with you, they're fine, they're not hurt, they forgave you, 6 yea-

Her father asks her about Ron.

Hermione swallows and looks down, a relieved glance- she doesn't know, her mind's running miles. She looks back up to the space between her parents and shakes her head.

"We aren't together anymore. Happened a while ago. A year. I believe."

Hermione nibbles at her bottom lip.

" 'Mione-"

"I was the one that broke it off. With him. It wasn't working, it was for the best."

Her parents watch her gaze, she looks beyond them, but she feels their eyes on her.

"Hermione, are you happy?" Her mother asks, quiet as Hermione feels. 

Hermione tilts her head to the side. 

She nods. "Of course I am, I'm here with you."

Her response garners two smiles. She loves the moment more.

draco

He's kicked his shoes off to the side of the bed already, and his socks lies somewhere beneath the sheets. He's not tired, and thinks about getting a drink. Not the first time this week.

The clock reads 1:04 a.m., Draco doesn't mind that and he pushes the clock down and puts on his watch instead. He pulls on a jumper the colour of wine, which is ironic: he doesn't drink wine, as much as it'd be a good jumper to spill wine on. Pants come on after that, the second and last pair of casual trousers he has.

He stands up, and for a beat, he feels tired, drained, but he brushes it away. He misses the bed right beside him, the one he just got out of, but he wants a drink more.

He walks out of his bedroom, not a long walk to the door and kitchen.

He shuffles the Daily Prophets on the kitchen table and stacks them on the bookshelf to the right.

There's a few hundred there. The collection's been getting smaller, he's started to thin it out by throwing away the articles he doesn't care about.

That process has been taking up quite a lot of his time. But it saves space for more.

He finishes that up quickly, and heads out the door, keys in hand to slip in his pocket and wallet in the other. 

He lets his hand brush the door frame as he walks out and pulls the door shut by the rattling knob with his other hand, not bothering locking his apartment door. He never does this season, everyone on his floor is rich enough to go wherever it is that's hotter.

Draco- he doesn't wish he was one of them. He likes the small gap of chilly days between the fall and winter.

Draco walks down the apartment stairs, tonight, usually he takes the lift but he guesses he'll take it the way back up later tonight- or morning. 

It's the weekend, it doesn't really matter.

Draco runs his thumb along his jaw, weeks old stubble bristling closer to his chin. The pub's to the left, at least the one he usually likes visits on nights like this. He decides to turn right- there's another he hadn't been to in a while.

The Bride's Saddle is a dingy little pub, cramped and stuffed with foul-mouthed muggles and the occasionally nice bartenders behind the counter. Draco finds it strange that he finds the room cold every time he walks in though.

He sits down at the counter. Orders a beer. It's been a while since he gave a shit about being refined, alcohol or not.

hermione

The pillowcase feels itchy against her neck. She tosses and turns.

The night turns 1:04 in the dark, neon numbers flashing digital, and Hermione runs a finger under her eye, as if it'd help her eyes from feeling any wider and awake.

She throws off the comforter. Sits upright.

Her heart churns at the bottom of her stomach. This is the part of her day that doesn't feel like home.

Hermione throws on her clothes, a loose blouse and jeans. She drags along a coat, her mother's, at her complaint of seeing Hermione wrapped in too thin a trench coat in the few minutes after she stepped in the house.

Hermione huffs and shuffles as quietly as she can through the halls. Stops for a quick splash of water against her face in the bathroom, and continues her way down the stairs.

It's quiet, so quiet. 

She doesn't really know what she could do at this hour, really. It's been years since she's stayed in London long enough to have time to catch up with friends late-night, while trotting down the porch stone steps and making her way down the lit sidewalk.

She wonders what she could do. Late night river watching, whatever that means. Late night rooftop climbing, no mind how'd she'd get to a rooftop in the first place. 

She considers the wand she left at the house. Damns herself for forgetting so.

It's not like she could get too creative in the city anyway. Loads of muggles around, even at night.

She considers a pub.

Almost laughs out loud. It was an experience not yet had in London. Last time she visited, she was what- 17? Almost 18, but it still wasn't on her mind to drink. She had her fair share of pub visits down in Diagon with Harry, Ginny, and- Ron, since graduating Hogwarts. 

Hermione wonders how muggle alcohol tastes like. The stolen sips of wine as a child during summer fancy family dinners pays no memory in taste for her. 

She heads north. Asks the first muggle passerby for directions.

She feels adventurous, sort of.

It's a little rush, she pays no mind, but it's her first, since feeling as heroic as she was the few years ago, etched in deep memory.

draco

Draco spits out a holler as the telly churns with a rowing game of football, riled up as every other muggle fanatic in the pub. He never thought any sport could be as enrapturing as Quidditch, or maybe he's just too drunk for a good measure.

Tonight, the pub's not really full, not really empty. Most of the people in it just jeer at the T.V. with the amount of amusement they'd have if it were live. Not pre-recorded and played over and over everytime Draco visits.

The pub tilts with Draco's head, staring at the telly and the tall people in front of it. They wouldn't be tall, he thinks, if he'd gotten up, but he inwardly- maybe outwardly, giggles at the thought.

It's not even funny.

Draco feels the pub tilt even more within his vision, leaning to the side and a little back to the counter ledge digging into his back. He feels like he's falling, as he does when he's drunk, but he knows he's not because he's only numb torso up and his butt is absolutely glued to the seat he's in.

He laughs a little again. Draws the gaze of the person beside him.

The game goes on for a little while more, until someone yells at the bartender to switch the channel to whatever croquet game they televise nowadays and the pub rumbles with a little laughter. The bartender grudgingly complies.

Draco turns back, then, raising his hand for another drink and regretting it the moment it slides in front of him.

He doesn't feel that drunk anymore. His throat scratches a little, when he downs the glass.

Then he hears the door open. The room almost blossoms with warmth. A quiet little creak, amidst the roar of the small loud crowd around him. He doesn't know why he hears it, but his lips part a little at the sight.

Granger. Hermione Granger. 

He snorts a little to himself and turns, that would be impossible, unnecessary. Draco grabs his drink and drinks deep, and thinks he feels the tip of his nose touching his drink.

Granger. That'd be hilarious. 

He hums a little and hesitates to look back. But he's drunk, still, he thinks, and does anyway. The door stands empty and alone, the closest person to the door being his neighbour. No Granger, he muses. He smiles.

"Draco." 

His eyes flicker upwards, then to his right.

He doesn't really know what to think now. Hermione Granger stands there before him, sporting a nice new cut and the same expression she always gave him when he didn't insult her first, before speaking to her- but the look's different. Softer.

Then, that's when he wonders why she said 'Draco', instead of 'Malfoy' or 'Ferret', or his favourite, 'Traitorous Asshat of a Snake'.

She's never called him the last. But he expects it- even though he wants think better of her, and himself too.

"Granger," He means to say, but slurs it instead.

He's drunk, he's probably hallucinating.

"Malfoy, it's-" She purses her lips, then smiles, polite and a little tight. "Never thought I'd see you here." She mumbles.

Draco flashes a grin, and then thinks, yeah, she's totally real and here. "What, you thought you'd see me somewhere else?"

Granger only raises a brow and puts a hand on her hip, and Draco hates how familiar that feels. "No, I knew that you were- stationed in London. Just forgot, that's all." 

"Stationed? That's a funny way of saying 'sentenced'," Draco drawls, drawing his glass back to his mouth, not sure if he even finished his sentence at all. 

"You know what I mean." Granger says, curling her lip a little at the corner. But she stops, and steps a little closer.

Draco looks down at her feet then up. Back into her eyes.

"I'm sorry, can I sit with you?"

Draco chokes on the emptiness in his mouth, having swallowed all the liquor he just downed. 

Granger sits anyway. Eyes slow and movements a little less slower. 

"How are you?"

hermione

That's the best she can think of, for now. She bites her tongue at Draco's expression.

"Good. It's been what- four drinks down the hatch? Usually gets more fun around now."

Hermione wants to ask, fun how, but she swallows the words. 

Draco looks so different. Face less narrow, or more, she doesn't know because he's not looking at her now and the angle she watches is darkened by dim lighting. Hermione feels a little uncomfortable and out of place, but there's no reason for leaving now. The walk took 20 minutes.

"Bartender, two shots of vodka, please." He raises his hand, and the bartender hears and nods at a sizeable distance.

"You didn't have to order for me," It slips out of her mouth, quicker than she can catch herself, because she's impressed that he's ordered exactly what she mused on trying on the way here.

"Oh. I ordered that for myself, Granger." Draco says, bluntly and gaze direct.

Hermione draws back. Tries to not look pissed, but she knows he sees it already.

"I was joking, Granger, is that not obvious? You must've gotten dafter since graduating, social cues and whatnot."

She sucks on the inside of her cheek. "So much for assuming that you'd become  _less_ daft since graduating and more polite, Malfoy." She spits back, and glares at Draco's elbows propped up on the counter.

Silence gaps the small space between them. It's only small because of the stools being glued to the ground, or nailed, Hermione doesn't bother to look down. The two shots sets themselves in front of Draco and her. Right between them.

"I never graduated." He says, finally. 

Hermione feels horrible, of course. It sinks in. The look in his eyes, tells Hermione that he wanted to. He was just as smart as her, she remembers, maybe smarter, but not as hardworking. But just as deserving.

"I'm sorry, Draco. I didn't mean it like that, forget it."

He looks at her. In a way she can't read. She grimaces and decides to try not to trip up on her words again, to not say sorry so much. 

Draco's not looking at her anymore. He downs a shot. 

draco

He leaves the other shot for her, of course. He said he ordered for her. He guesses he did. 

He only really chose the last thing he'd expect her to drink and doubled it. 

Draco doesn't look back at her yet, he knows he has to, soon, to prove he's not socially deficient or 'shy' and awkward for the matter. It's just strange- how she said his name again. It's strange.

A cough comes from his right, then, and he looks over, at Hermione, who's hitched up her sleeves to her elbow and seems to be sputtering on the vodka hitched down her throat. 

He tries not to laugh. 

His head lolls as he watches Hermione swallow and try to not choke again for the next few seconds and his gaze travels down from her throat, to her grip loosening on the tiny shot glass. "Burns a little, doesn't it?"

Hermione swallows again and Draco's eyes flicker. "Not anymore," She grunts, and Draco thinks she almost sounds proper in her coughing and grunting.

He lets a sly smile slip on his face. He can't stop that, his face feels a little numb and muddy anyway.

"I'm guessing you can't drink that much with those horrid Ministry hours," He mumbles, and he's really guessing more than anything.

"Yeah, unless you count getting home at midnight to be a fine hour for after-work drinking." Hermione says, a little croak to her words. She's regaining her smooth voice little by little now.

"It's midnight _now_. Still a pretty fine hour, I think." 

"You know what I mean."

Hermione pauses for a beat.

Draco waits.

"How'd you know I worked at the Ministry?"

Draco drags a grin across his face, showing teeth. "Lucky guess. Obvious guess, actually."

Hermione rolls her eyes, but it's so subtle Draco almost thinks she doesn't.

"How's Shacklebolt? Still as pissy as he was when I last saw him?" Draco asks, fiddling with his own empty shot glass.

Hermione raises a brow and raises her hand again, to Draco's surprise.

"I wouldn't be able to say. He's my boss and I'm always hoping to impress." She says, but her eyes flicker. A smile brushes her lips.

"Why? He'll be gone soon. He's getting old, and forgetting to send me my mail on time. You'll take over soon enough," Draco chuckles, "And you'll do a better job. So I'm hoping you'll send me Chocolate Frogs along with the mail."

His mouth feels weird forming and saying all those words.

He realizes he tells the truth a lot when he's drunk. He hadn't realized before.

Not much people to tell the truth to.

But Hermione's face flushes, impossible as it seems, on dark skin under dim lighting, not counting the fading freckles that dot her cheekbones perfectly.

It kind of makes Draco's stomach churn. 

He tries not to think of it too much.

hermione

What's wrong with him, Hermione thinks, and she's glad enough that she's not drunk enough to say it aloud. The bartender slides another shot over.

_What's wrong with me, really._

Hermione can feel her cheeks heating and burning down to her neck. Baiting- no, she wouldn't say that- mentioning, the Minister position just like her father did.

Draco continues on. Hermione doesn't say anything.

"Florean Fortescue's, is another delicacy I have to say, that I miss. Butterbeer of course, how common of me to say so. But I have to."

Hermione's lips curl into a small smile.

"You haven't tried the newest flavours though," She finds herself saying, "They've got Sticky Toffee, now at Florean's. It's sweet, but the best one I've tried so far." 

Draco's face makes Hermione regret her words again. 

"You'll try it soon enough." She blurts again.

Draco makes a face, Hermione doesn't know what to make of it, and his breath flows between teeth. "Eight more years of waiting. I don't think they'll still have it then." He says, but there's no malicious sting to his words. They just stay sharp in the air even after he speaks them.

She knew that. 8 years. Out of 15 years. When she first saw the files, she felt- it felt-

Wrong. The whole thing felt wrong. As vanilla as the punishment was, probation for 15 years was long. Long enough.

draco

"Draco, I'm sor-"

His fingers curl into themselves. "You don't need to say that."

Hermione stops for the moment. Breathes quietly, but Draco can hear it over the chatter of the pub.

 _Draco,_ or,

 _Sorry._ He doesn't know which he means, either, he wants to say to her.

It makes him feel more human, when he hears 'Draco' on her tongue. 

And it's worse that he feels innocent when he hears 'I'm sorry'.

He deserves it. Wholly. 

Doesn't he?

"What do you love about London?" He asks, quietly and softly as the light that drifts on Hermione's face.

She doesn't take much time to answer. "The city. Everything."

"The tube, the streets,"

"Puddles, the double deckers,"

"My parents- why I'm here. Jollof rice, the muggles on the streets at night, my parents, and the memories."

She downs her shot.

"The memories I have. Before Hogwarts, before the War, before the Ministry."

Hermione stops there.

"Now tell me you."

hermione

She doesn't know why she tells Draco. 

He speaks now, after a while and ordering another drink. This is his what, 5th or 6th? She wasn't keeping track but she felt like she had to.

He talks about his co-workers. His job.

"I like Susan the most," He snickers, "She's hilarious, always whining about her husband but you can tell she doesn't mean it. I like my boss, I'll admit that. And my job."

"I like the loveseat, in my apartment. It's green."

"I like the magic muggles have."

Hermione asks about that. Magic, she chuckles, to herself before Draco answers. The image of Harry Houdini floats in her mind, and the card tricks her uncle taught her.

"The- technology," Draco says. "The tellies, wide-screens, the phones- the phones with their," Draco laughs, "their blippy screens and loud ringing. They're loud as Howlers, I swear on Merlin's grave."

Hermione laughs at that. She'll give him that. The phones her parents have, they just have to dial the volume all the way up.

But Draco smiles back. That's what surprises her. 

"I like the weather. It's cold, just as- home was."

Home. Hermione muses on it too. The image of- once, she would've said Harry, Ron, Ginny, Luna, everyone, and she feels as she still would, but it's different now, of course.

Home. She closes her eyes and thinks of the magic in her hands. Her own face in the mirror, a smile on her face, and every reason behind each smile. That's home enough.

She curls her fingers together and Draco curls his own around his empty beer glass. There's a few, all huddled together in front of him.

It's 2:59 a.m. now. Hermione feels nothing close to tired.

draco

"I'm leaving," Draco announces, but not loud enough for the bartender to hear.

Hermione raises a brow at him, gives him that look again. 

"It's late." He reiterates. 

"It's the weekend." Hermione says. 

Draco agrees. 

He gets up from his seat, dusting off nothing off his lap and pulls down his wine toned jumper over his belt. Hermione looks a lot shorter than short, sitting down with him standing.

"I'll get you home, Malfoy." She says, and Draco steps back in surprise. 

"No need, I know my way back to my own apartment," He mumbles, and draws his wallet out of his pocket.

He splits the leather fold. A lonely 5 pound note lays in the crook of his ragged wallet. Draco laughs out loud to himself.

He looks at Hermione. Back at the counter.

"Let's go, Granger." He quips, and walks to the door, hurriedly and as casual as he can without falling over.

"Ha, you give in easier than you did before-" But of course Hermione realizes what's going on.

She makes a strangled sound and grabs her jacket off her stool and skitters after him, and Draco can see from the corner of his eye that she's looked back at the counter at least twice.

 Draco's guessing he'll feel more guilty in the morning. Either that, or he'll forget everything that happened.

He looks back at Hermione, and they escape through the door and quicken their pace.

He hope he doesn't forget the night.

hermione

"Malfoy, you're an idiot," Hermione groans, her stomach aching with a cramp that makes her double over. 

They stand at a harbour dock. 

They're- around 6 blocks away, she's guessing, away from the pub. 

The bartender chased them 4 blocks.

"You _know,_ I could've paid for the drinks, right?" She hisses, and glares at Draco, chest just giving in and rising as heavy as hers.

"Of course. But couldn't, risk you thinking me rude, and impolite again, would I?" He pants, catching his breath every 5 words or whatnot, and looks at Hermione to grin.

Hermione swallows. But her throat stopped feeling dry a block ago.

"Not rude. Just a criminal." She mutters, and slides down to sit on the wet dock.

The night proves itself dark, with only 2 harbour street lamps near off in the distance, but the wince on Draco's face shows itself clearly.

She just about apologizes, but holds her words back. 

Draco straightens upright, then, and props his hands on his hips to catch a last breath. Then he extends to offer his hand.

Hermione takes it, lets him pull herself up.

The grasp he holds on her hand lasts a little past a few seconds.

He lets go.

"I'll walk you home."

draco

Hermione refuses to tell Draco her address until he agrees to go home first.

His apartment takes a 40 min walk. He regrets running south. 

The go up the lift together quiet, opposed to the mostly silent walk back, with a few mutual jabs and jokes at the late night traffic from time to time. They watch the floor numbers flash on the lift.

Draco reaches his apartment finally, with Hermione trailing a few steps behind him.

He takes the keys out of his pocket swings the ring around his finger when remembers he didn't lock the door. He slips them back into his pocket and turns around.

"I-"

She looks so different. Out of the dingy pub lighting. Away from the dark night and weak moon shine. 

Under the harshly fluorescent bulbs above head, Hermione looks tired, softer, face less rounded and just- just as wise. Her hair makes her look different, too.

She looks, strong, Draco would say. And something else, but Draco laughs inwardly at the thought and quells it and feels all the more stupider for feeling so.

"I'm sorry." He says, but he knows he's drunk enough to say the next words with and without thinking. "For everything I did to you, before." 

A shadow passes over Hermione's face. "We were kids. That's all."

Draco's gaze hardens and he feels all the worse for hating that she said that. "No. That's- that's not an excuse anymore."

And Hermione winces, and he feels worse, and worser. 

Draco wants to apologize again. For every part of it. The bullying- as childish as it would sound, the harassing, the assholery he displayed. 

Yeah, they were kids. But he still did it, and it still hurt.

So he says, once again, "I'm sorry, Hermione. I was an ass." 

Hermione smiles. 

Worse. Or something else.

"I forgive you. And I'll see a Chocolate Frog to you next month, whether I'll be the Minister then or not." She puffs, and she looks almost happy, at peace. 

Draco smiles, even though he knows it's small. He steps a little forward, and dips his chin. "Thank you."

He doesn't know what else to say. 

Hermione nods back, and almost turns, but stops. She looks straight at him, with a sort of candidacy that makes Draco freeze and burn on the spot. 

She turns back, walks down the hall and Draco doesn't realize he hasn't moved since then.

A peace settles within his chest, one he didn't know he wanted. He locks the door behind him and settles into his bed clothes, then bed.

It feels strange, he knows, to see a part of the world- the home, he so missed.

Draco doesn't remember when he closes his eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i deeply apologize for saying telly too much and every other british thing i've wrongly mentioned, im not british and i havent visited london, but i hope to one day. :)
> 
> also, i'd love it if you left kudos and comments, thanks so much for reading!
> 
> more to come soon :))))))


End file.
